“Yes, actually,” Alderson says. “They grabbed moldings of the tire treads at the trailhead in the area Clarissa was last seen. We’re having them reanalyzed, but there’s nothing conclusive yet.”
I’m delighted and surprised that the Teton County Sheriff’s Department cared enough to pull moldings in the first place. As long as there weren’t too many other tracks in the area to make them useless, the evidence might prove useful. I think of that pack Lasserio took back into the shed. If things weren’t so crazy today, I’d have already made it back there to snoop around.
I tell Alderson and Greene about it, show them the video, and suggest they use FBI muscle to get access to that shed before Lasserio returns, probably this evening after his Wednesday poker fest. That is, if he’s not too drunk to drive. “I’ve already called the storage businessowner,” I say. “Lasserio isn’t even renting it. It’s registered in Robbie Ridgeway’s father’s name, David Ridgeway, who is no longer alive.”
“Interesting,” Alderson says. “Establishing probable cause over a guy carrying a random backpack out of a shed isn’t feasible, but I’ll see what we can do.”
I know he’s right, that my video of a guy moving a pack around means nothing, but I can’t get over how suspicious Lasserio looked and the way he got so nervous when a stranger pulled in.
Alderson fishes around in his notes until he finds his information on the Ridgeway lead. He makes phone calls while Greene taps away on her keyboard. Jess excuses herself to take a shower, and I go outside to finally scrub our cars.
After about forty-five minutes, the agents come out with Jess trailing them. They announce they have three people they plan on contacting who currently or have recently been ranch hands at the Crazy R Ranch.
Before they get in their car, Alderson tells us both not to hesitate to contact them if we think of anything else or notice anything suspicious at all. He directs it to Jess more than to me, probably because he senses she needs it more than I do, since I’ve been getting used to the drill. “And,” he adds, handing her his card, “you might want to consider renting vehicles for a few days. Especially you.” He points to me. “Now that you’ve been filmed coming out of your place, everyone knows what you’re driving.”
I brush it off, but I know he’s right.
I stand beside Jess as they drive away under the darkening sky.
“Jess,” I say. “We need to talk.”
“Oh.” She looks at her phone. She’s holding Alderson’s card, her brow tight with worry. “But I have to pick up Sam from school.” She glances at her car. “You got all the writing off. Thank you,” she says. “Is it okay to drive, though? Maybe we should both swing by the airport and grab rentals, as he suggested.”
“That’s not going to matter. They know—” I stop. I don’t want to worry her more than she already is.
“They know what? Where we live?”
I nod.
“That’s obvious.”
I don’t reply.
“Jesus,” she says, shaking her head angrily. “What have you gotten us into?” She’s glaring at me with an anger I haven’t seen since we were younger and in the throes of hormonal teen rages.
It’s a good question. WhathaveI gotten us into? But her glare rankles me. Classic Jess—try to support her and make her happy, only for her to seize on the one thing that might indicate I’m making everything worse.
“You’renottelling me something,” she says.
“No,” I say fast, fetching the bucket of water I’ve been using simply so I can turn away from her. I wonder if I sound like I’m lying, but at least I seem 100 percent sure. She’s spot-on that I’m not telling her things. It’s cliché to say someone will never talk to you again, but with Jess, I wonder. She already seems so on the edge. I can’t disappoint her further by telling her that I played a critical role in taking away what she saw as a path to her own healing, talking to Coleman and offering him forgiveness as a direct line to her full recovery. That IhelpedRailes get away with taking that from her, even if it was in an indirect way.
All of it feels like it’s rushing up like acid in my throat, choking me, keeping me from speaking.
“Cough it up, Cros.”
I swallow. “Nothing to tell.”
“You’ve been strange lately. You know it. I know. But never mind.” She turns from me. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I say, dropping the bucket as I follow her inside. She stomps in and heads to the kitchen, where she grabs her purse and looks inside to make sure she has her keys. “You want to talk about strange? Do you want to tell me why you have Ryan Petronis’s file in your office?”
She looks up at me. There’s a dawning in her eyes.
“What? You were snooping around my office?”
“I was looking for some Advil. I didn’t realize you had things you needed to hide.”
“There’s absolutely nothing I need to hide.” Her voice is cold and hard. Almost detached. It surprises me. I have a flash of wonder if there really could be an inky pool of darkness, a hole in her soul, developed from what Coleman did to her.
